


The "I" in Team

by thayln



Category: Leverage
Genre: Gen, Post season 2 episodes 1 and 2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-16
Updated: 2014-03-16
Packaged: 2018-01-16 00:13:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1324537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thayln/pseuds/thayln
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's about control.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The "I" in Team

Nate can feel it coalescing in the air, can almost calculate the quantum structure of its rebounding strength. He idly finger-traces a formula through puddles of condensation till it glimmers, near visible on the polished wood of the bar. His team is rebuilding itself around him, reaching hungrily, almost giddily, for what he’s taught them to want.

And Nate can’t breathe. He can’t…

He stares at the drink in front of him, its honeyed glow dimming the flash of new memories: that first gunshot when Nate wasn’t quite sure that Eliot hadn’t really been hit, Parker and Hardison wrestling on the floor, the new look of understanding between Sophie and Eliot after Nebraska. And who’s fucked up idea had it been to _drive_ back to Boston, anyway?

It had been entirely too easy to slouch against the passenger window of the SUV and half-doze to the sounds of cheerful squabbling and Eliot’s damn country music on the radio. They’d stopped at some diner outside Cleveland just before dawn, and Parker had alternated leaning against Eliot and Hardison between jaw-stretching bites of pancake, while the boys had argued the relative merits of different basketball teams over her head. Sophie had been quiet, staring thoughtfully out the window at a row of sleeping trucks. The harsh lighting wasn’t kind to any of them, and they were suddenly so real to Nate: Sophie and Parker, soft and rumpled with no makeup; Eliot, with a new scar just under his eye; and Hardison’s sleep deprived grin. They were human and breakable and Nate’s, and he had never wanted to feel this much for anyone, again.

Nate takes a deliberate breath and places a ten on top of his untouched drink, a crumpled one, this time. Control. He grabs his battered hat from a rack by the door and steps into the drizzling night, pulling his collar up and jamming his hands deep into the pockets of his trench. It’s all about control, isn’t it? His feet head toward the Common. It’s already too late to try and pull back, and he’s never really been one to run from responsibility, anyway. No, he’s just going to have to stay one step ahead, do a better job of projecting scenarios, cover all the angles.

A taxi darts by in a blare of sound and color, throwing cold water on his thoughts. He jumps backward onto the curb, and fights for balance, blinking. He stares around for a moment, unsure of which block this is till he sees a familiar cursive sweep of neon, enabling him to orient himself in space.

The details of the night rush in on him, wet cement and low orange clouds, cars and buses and thousands of buildings crowded with beating hearts.

Control.

Right, he can do that. He’s the man with the plan. Nate turns toward home, angling his hat against the rain.


End file.
